Post by Sir Blimely Windy on Sept 20, 2009 20:50:54 GMT
Can it really be 20 years? Does time move on that quickly?
At around this time last year I posted an 'In Memoriam' thread about my dad. I wanted to post something again, but not to regurgitate the whole story once again. So, if you don't mind, I would like to share with you a bit more of my dad's, Mo's, story. A small amount of it will be repetitious, and for that I crave your indulgence.
Mo was born on 5th November 1933 as the sixth of 8 children. He was the surviving member of a pair of twins, and was a sickly youngster, suffering from Influenza and pneumonia over the years. A wiry and muscular young man, with a thick head of ginger hair. Mo took an apprenticeship as a carpenter with Lewis Thorpe and Sons of Tunbridge Wells, and did his military service as a sapper in the Royal Engineers, seeing active service in Malaya and Korea in the 1950s.
He met and married my mum in the 1964 and had 3 sons, of whom I am the youngest. We poddled along as you do, until the wheels started to come off our cosy existence in 1985. It wasn't a medical matter, but my dad was made redundant from the building firm he worked for. He decided to become a self-employed contractor, and carried on for the next few years.
In 1987 I passed my A Levels and went to University in the beautiful city of Southampton. Dad had started feeling unwell, ever since he had got back off holiday on Guernsey- he and mum had never had a honeymoon and this was the first ever time they could afford a holiday away together. Anyway, he had pains in his stomach, and reluctantly went to see our family GP. I should point out that my dad was a liar when it came to medical matters, and even if he was in agony at home, to outsiders, and that included members of the medical profession, he wasn't too bad!
Eventually Mo went to a specialist, who recommended that he have scans. In March 1988, six months after falling ill, he had an exploratory op to see what was up. I had never seen my dad in a hospital bed, and burst into floods of tears when I saw him in hospital on that Friday. The surgeons had removed part of his pancreas and the biopsy confirmed the news that we were dreading. Dad had his Chemo and Radiotherapy, and we tried to get on with things. Events of the last week, with Patrick Swayze, have brought this back to my mind.
For the next 18 months (I am told now that pancreatic cancer has a poor prognosis, so we didn't have a bad go at it), Mo carried on as best he could, being polite and civil to neighbours and doctors, but swearing to high heaven inside the house. He was losing weight rapidly, and by August 1989 weighed around 6 stone- this for a man who was 5 foot 10. We had our lighter moments- my brother had an operation that required the services of a district nurse to come daily to change dressings. My Gran lived opposite, and came over one morning saying 'I see the nurse was late this morning'. A voice thundered out of the downstairs loo- 'We'll get her to f*****g well clock in next time shall we?'.
At the end of August we had a party for all the family. My Uncle Henry died when dad had been ill for 3 months and Uncle Arthur died a year later- the first time I have ever seen my dad cry. This was now one year on and I was off on my travels- off for my year abroad in Germany. He stayed up really late that night, even thought the pain was unbearable- we later found the cancer had spread to his stomach. Once a soldier, always a soldier, he made sure I had cleaned my shoes before I set off. On the Monday morning, he was in great pain but didn't tell me, shook me by the hand and wished me all the best- that was the last thing he ever said to me. I suppose he wanted me to carry on, and not to wait around, even though he knew in his heart of hearts that the end was nigh. His elder sister had booked a holiday months in advance, and had told him she didn't want to go- he told her to sanguineous well travel, as he didn't want her to sit around waiting for him to die!
Three weeks later I got that phone call. I rushed back to England and got to the hospital where dad was in a coma. He died 3 hours later.
We three 'boys' (boys, what am I saying, we were 24, 22 and 20) left mum to herself for a while that day and went out, ostensibly to visit friends and relatives, but none of us was in the mood.
It is amazing how this time of year manages to make me feel the same way, every single year. I am not sad per se, I just feel a little strange.
In memory of Maurice (Mo) Jeffery
died 23rd September 1989, aged 55 years.
Sleep on Mo, until we meet again.
At around this time last year I posted an 'In Memoriam' thread about my dad. I wanted to post something again, but not to regurgitate the whole story once again. So, if you don't mind, I would like to share with you a bit more of my dad's, Mo's, story. A small amount of it will be repetitious, and for that I crave your indulgence.
Mo was born on 5th November 1933 as the sixth of 8 children. He was the surviving member of a pair of twins, and was a sickly youngster, suffering from Influenza and pneumonia over the years. A wiry and muscular young man, with a thick head of ginger hair. Mo took an apprenticeship as a carpenter with Lewis Thorpe and Sons of Tunbridge Wells, and did his military service as a sapper in the Royal Engineers, seeing active service in Malaya and Korea in the 1950s.
He met and married my mum in the 1964 and had 3 sons, of whom I am the youngest. We poddled along as you do, until the wheels started to come off our cosy existence in 1985. It wasn't a medical matter, but my dad was made redundant from the building firm he worked for. He decided to become a self-employed contractor, and carried on for the next few years.
In 1987 I passed my A Levels and went to University in the beautiful city of Southampton. Dad had started feeling unwell, ever since he had got back off holiday on Guernsey- he and mum had never had a honeymoon and this was the first ever time they could afford a holiday away together. Anyway, he had pains in his stomach, and reluctantly went to see our family GP. I should point out that my dad was a liar when it came to medical matters, and even if he was in agony at home, to outsiders, and that included members of the medical profession, he wasn't too bad!
Eventually Mo went to a specialist, who recommended that he have scans. In March 1988, six months after falling ill, he had an exploratory op to see what was up. I had never seen my dad in a hospital bed, and burst into floods of tears when I saw him in hospital on that Friday. The surgeons had removed part of his pancreas and the biopsy confirmed the news that we were dreading. Dad had his Chemo and Radiotherapy, and we tried to get on with things. Events of the last week, with Patrick Swayze, have brought this back to my mind.
For the next 18 months (I am told now that pancreatic cancer has a poor prognosis, so we didn't have a bad go at it), Mo carried on as best he could, being polite and civil to neighbours and doctors, but swearing to high heaven inside the house. He was losing weight rapidly, and by August 1989 weighed around 6 stone- this for a man who was 5 foot 10. We had our lighter moments- my brother had an operation that required the services of a district nurse to come daily to change dressings. My Gran lived opposite, and came over one morning saying 'I see the nurse was late this morning'. A voice thundered out of the downstairs loo- 'We'll get her to f*****g well clock in next time shall we?'.
At the end of August we had a party for all the family. My Uncle Henry died when dad had been ill for 3 months and Uncle Arthur died a year later- the first time I have ever seen my dad cry. This was now one year on and I was off on my travels- off for my year abroad in Germany. He stayed up really late that night, even thought the pain was unbearable- we later found the cancer had spread to his stomach. Once a soldier, always a soldier, he made sure I had cleaned my shoes before I set off. On the Monday morning, he was in great pain but didn't tell me, shook me by the hand and wished me all the best- that was the last thing he ever said to me. I suppose he wanted me to carry on, and not to wait around, even though he knew in his heart of hearts that the end was nigh. His elder sister had booked a holiday months in advance, and had told him she didn't want to go- he told her to sanguineous well travel, as he didn't want her to sit around waiting for him to die!
Three weeks later I got that phone call. I rushed back to England and got to the hospital where dad was in a coma. He died 3 hours later.
We three 'boys' (boys, what am I saying, we were 24, 22 and 20) left mum to herself for a while that day and went out, ostensibly to visit friends and relatives, but none of us was in the mood.
It is amazing how this time of year manages to make me feel the same way, every single year. I am not sad per se, I just feel a little strange.
In memory of Maurice (Mo) Jeffery
died 23rd September 1989, aged 55 years.
Sleep on Mo, until we meet again.